


Things will get better...

by You_can_escape (Demented_Soul)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Domestic Violence, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demented_Soul/pseuds/You_can_escape
Summary: I wrote this a few weeks ago and I have been seriously conflicted as to whether or not I should upload this, writing this was supposed to be a platform for me to get out some feelings that have been building up inside me... but I have decided to share it because if people are searching for these stories via the tags then there is a good chance you are suffering similar circumstances, so if this helps even one person I am glad I shared it...Please remember, what you are going through right now has an ending, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel and you are strong enough to make it... If you can, get help, from a teacher, a doctor, a friend, a trusted adult... anyone! If getting help isn't a possibility then don't give up because you WILL survive it...There are numbers you can call, and if you don't know what they are shoot me a message and I will find them for you!You matter...
Relationships: Father/Daughter - Relationship, father/son - Relationship, father/wife
Kudos: 13





	Things will get better...

I've never been afraid of 'monsters' per-say. I know they exist, I just don't think they live under my bed or in my closet. You see, I knew a monster once. In fact, I loved him. He played baseball with me and taught me how to swim. He had deep brown eyes, and a smile nearly identical to my own, his double most would say. We were the all-American family, a unit that some could only ever dream of and I felt blessed to have it. 

My mom was sweet, my sister annoying, but love was always the foremost feeling… until it wasn’t.

My dad was a bit of a drinker you see, what started as a few nights a week turned in to a daily aspect seemingly overnight, he never had a sober day anymore if he could help it, and it came from absolutely nowhere. He did everything drunk. He drove, shopped and went to work drunk. With right reason they fired him, and that was the beginning of the end. 

He never had less than two full bottles of Gin and a case of beer in the house, those were his ‘emergency rations’ and he immediately went shopping if he reached that level. Yet he would never describe himself as an alcoholic, he figured he could quit anytime he wanted to. When the love between my parents died, the love of power arose in my father. I didn’t blame my mom for hating him, it came from nowhere. 

No longer did he cherish her company or speak her name with softness. No longer were my sister and I looked at as the blessings in his life… we were now the burdens. My mom worked hard, but worked even harder when my bum of a dad just sat at home and drank, she even got a third job, working night and day to pay the bills, but it was never enough because he took every cent and it destroyed her that she couldn’t provide for her family. 

The fact my dad never felt like the king of the castle anymore only left room for a rage he could not suppress, and there was never any other target but her. It was his own fault he didn’t work anymore, it was by choice of that or the bottle, and the latter won every time. At first there was guilt, an attempt to stop, but soon it gave way, he finally found a way to feel powerful again by beating his fists into her skin. 

I was only eight, I couldn’t stop it, I tried though, I tried to pull him away from my mom. I laid my body over her to take the brunt while my sister cowered in the corner too scared to move, she wasn’t much older than me. But I was simply thrown across the room. Like a ball on a string I would run back each time, pulling his arm away as I begged him to stop, I swear I tried mom…

Night after night I lay in my bed, listening to the sound of fighting. My mom would shout, my dad would begin laying into her and then screaming would start. She cried, he seethed, and I pushed my face into the pillow. I would think to myself how when mom left, I would leave with her, flee the violence.

But she never left, because it doesn’t work like that, it never does.

I turned ten today, I’m happy, I’m happy because most of his anger towards the precious woman in my life has now turned to me. Why? I’m not sure, maybe because I was a little bigger? Maybe he just hated me more? Maybe I did something wrong? Or maybe because he never wanted a faggot son? That’s what he’d scream anyway. Huh, he knew before I even did… the looks of love changed to hatred rapidly, it’s how I get my bruises. And, theoretically, my self-induced scars. But what hurts worse are the questions, why? 

The memory of those nights still flood my mind to this day, they haunt my dreams, sometimes the weight is too much and I feel like I’m drowning, to this day I still wake to the imaginary sound of breaking glass, the sound of screaming and suddenly I’m ten years old again, crying in my bed too fucking scared to move.

From the outside it was a perfect marriage, a perfect family, and we were, once.

Every adult has one particular fond memory of childhood, an amazing experience or cherished time with a loved one, I suppose my dad gave me them, but he replaced them with ones that outweigh the good, one in particular I wish I could erase from every fibre of my being. My first real beating will always come second to that memory, I think any kind of pain will. 

The beating though, that wasn't hard to recall. I knew he had finished with my mom when the screams turned to silence, I heard the footsteps etch closer to my bedroom door until it was kicked open. I was already sat up in my bed when he walked inside, willing my legs to push me further up the bed and away from this man, but the wall is my prison, it held me in place so the devil could work.

I wanted to break out of those invisible restraints and run, I hated been the weaker one.

"No! Dad! Please no!" I don’t know why I ever begged, I don’t know why I pleaded and cried, I hate myself for that now… I hate that I gave him the satisfaction of my fear… but I did, and I can’t change that now. I cried out as he punched me in the face again, much harder than he ever had before. I pleaded with him to stop after each punch, screaming as my glasses are smashed into my face, the pain is unbearable. I managed to squirm away for a second by wriggling off the bed and collapsing to the floor, big mistake. Running always made it worse. 

I was terrified when he raised his fist again. In my own desperate attempt of futile defence, I raised my arms trying to cover my face, but he simply pushed my hands away and grabbed me by the neck hauling me up as he dragged me across the floor and threw me against the banister in the hallway, I don’t really remember the pain in my memories, I don’t think I ever really felt it in the moment if I’m honest, it’s like shock took over until after the event and the pain returned as some bitter gift. 

I looked to my parents open bedroom door and see my mom on the bed unconscious, blood seeping from multiple cuts across her face, they are so bad I’m not even sure if she’s alive. But there would be no Doctor.

I’m grasped by my hair and pulled down each step until finally, I’m thrown down the basement stairs. Bouncing painfully off each wooden step until I land hard at the bottom, I look back up the stairs but the door's already been shut and bolted. Lowering my head, I dragged myself into corner and collapsed there. Laying still on my side, the bruises on my body ache and each cut stings. But it’s not the cold that sets me shivering, it’s the darkness. 

You always played on my biggest fears, I remember before it all started and you bought me nightlights, you would sit on the side of my bed until I fell asleep so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark, but then you weaponised that fear against me, by turning that basement into my home, you even painted the window black just to prevent any slither of light. You didn’t care about the rats or the cockroaches scurrying around me. My tears were cold on my skin that night. I whined in pain and sobbed, but you left me there. How could you do that to another human being? To a child? I don’t understand what we did to make you hate us that much?

Lying on the concrete floor, the cold helped to numb the pain a little but not much. I remember shaking uncontrollably that night, I closed my eyes, praying they would never open again. It took hours, but I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, even that was better, because my nightmares couldn’t ever match up to my reality so they were like a reprieve. After an hour or two though I'm awake again, I'm afraid to sleep, I need to be alert.

In my innocent mind I actually dreamed I would wake up one day far away from this place, I never did though, a concrete floor is as good as it gets for me.

I'm sitting against the wall, I don’t know how long I’ve been down here now, the constant darkness takes away any chance for coherent cognitive thought, when the sound of the door being un-bolted meets my ears followed by footsteps the shaking starts again and I looked for a place to hide. But down here, there is nothing to hide in, under or behind. So, I simply held my breath awaiting the worst when the footsteps come closer, I drew myself as tight as I could into the corner, that the pressure hurts my back.

Terrified, I looked away and drew my arms up over my head, bracing for impact when the footsteps stopped right in front of me. I flinch then relax only slightly when I feel a soft touch against my hair, I dare to look up and wait for my eyes to adjust from the invading light of the open door, it’s my mom, that means it’s mid morning and the bars are open, we have a few hours of reprieve.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table that morning as if it happened yesterday, we were just surrounded by broken objects, I don’t think we owned anything intact anymore, if it could be smashed or used as a weapon it had been. My eyes switched between the floor and my mom as she gently swabbed the cuts on my face, we didn’t say a word, what was there to say? At that point I wasn’t sure who looked worse, me or her… I looked over at my sister and envied her pristine skin, not a single scratch or blemish, I remember hating her on some level in that moment, it’s a feeling I will always detest myself for having. I questioned why he never hit her? Why was she so special? But now I know nobody was special in that house, being beaten wasn’t the only form of abuse that man dished out, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you either… I’m sorry I allowed myself to hate you in that brief moment when you were suffering your own untold hell.

We all still when the front door flew open, he’d only been gone an hour, it was unusual because he would drink at the bars every day until closing time before coming home and getting a buzz in a different way so this was going to be bad, and it was.

“Who took my fucking money!!” He meant my mom’s money, she worked, he drank it all away, that was the system. Spit flew from his mouth punctuating each word as he grabbed my mom by her hair and pulled her head as far back as it would go. “What money?” She cried, my first thought was that he spent it in the bars and forgot because none of us would have been stupid enough to steal from his wallet.

He let go of my mom’s hair and made a move towards me, quickly she rushed to hide me behind her, but it's too late. I'm spotted. 

“Why the hell is he up here!?” His hand hit hard across her face and she fell with the force of it, I can still hear her skull connect with the tile and the noise is sickening. You hit me hard across the face too with so much force I end up beside my unconscious mom on the floor. How could you do that?

Whimpering I try and drag myself away, but it’s no use, he just grasps me around my throat and presses me to the wall. Choking and gasping for air, turning from white to blue I grab at his hands around my neck. Finally, he lets me go and I drop, crumpling on the floor as he kicks me repeatedly, I feel my ribs snap with a crunch and agonising pain follows. He kicked me again and again, the pain is excruciating, I wish I could say that was the worst pain I'd ever felt at his abusive hands, I really wish I could. 

I cry out weakly as I’m called a dirty little fag, over and over and over again. I'm exhausted, I’m broken… a low pitiful moan is all I can manage. Once again he throws me though the basement door, tumbling down the stairs, only he follows this time. Landing in a heap, he grabbed me forcefully and has to hold me up, I don’t have the strength to do it on my own anymore. He shook me so violently, I feel sick. "What the fuck were you doing up there!" He screams in my face. "ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE FUCKING FAGGOT!" I don't reply, just cry and shake. "I TOLD YOU THAT YOU ARE NEVER TO BE UP THERE UNLESS I ALLOW IT!" My father’s hands are around my throat again, that’s how he is holding me up, my feet hanging far up off the floor, then in one swift motion I’m slammed against the hard wall until everything starts fading to black… please let me die this time.

I turned twelve today, I’m happy, I’m happy because I only have four more years of this hell and then I can run free… the cops wont be able to bring me back to my hell hole because I’m a runaway child, I can get a job then and find my own place, then my mom and sister can come and live with me…

I hear the bolt on the basement door open and I can smell my mom’s perfume, “Happy birthday sweetie.” Is uttered through the tears, she doesn’t reach out for a hug, our injuries don’t allow it. But she sits in front of me with a slice of apple pie, my favorite, we share the pie in silence… there’s nothing to be said. I know she feels nothing but guilt and self-hatred, like everything was her fault, it wasn’t mom, it was never your fault.

She has to go now, my dad will be home soon, so it’s time for me to be left in darkness once more. That piece of pie always has, and always will be the best birthday gift I have ever gotten. Why? Because I know what my mom had to do to get that small insignificant treat… she must have snook out of the house to the bakery, if she had been caught, it wouldn’t have been pretty. 

I spent my birthday in darkness and maybe a day or two after that, I don’t know, when you are surrounded by constant darkness you lose all sense of time.

There are no screams when I hear the front door open and close this time, it means my mom’s already in bed and the bars are closed. I don’t move when I hear him make his way down the stairs, I don’t flinch when he nudges me with his foot, I don’t tense and wait for impact, no, I lay face down as still as a statue. Looking back that is another thing I hate myself for, abusers enjoy seeing the pain and fear in their prey, they enjoy the screams and the crying, the cowering and the begging… god I wish I had done exactly that in that moment, because what does an abuser do when a simple beating doesn’t invoke the level of fear wanted anymore? They step it up.

I heard him take off his belt, I felt my shirt torn from my body, so tonight it’s welts from the belt buckle? Christ I wish that were true. I can never smell gin without recalling that night. The odour takes me right back to my insides burning, ripping, bleeding. The smell takes me right back to lying naked on that basement floor, shaking as I had my innocence ripped away from me. With every recollection of that night I feel like less of a man, I had no desire to see another dawn for a long time after that. A simple smell of Gin is instant trauma for me, that smell is your creeping hands, your coarse stubble on my neck and your vile, disgusting tongue against my flesh as you whispered words that cannot and will not ever be expunged from my mind. 

On the dark nights in my prison my thoughts of self-pity turned to thoughts of escape, of freedom, I was only twelve years old but I knew the dynamic was simple, it was kill or be killed… so do you know what I did dad? I didn’t curl in to a ball on the concrete floor anymore and sob when I was down there for days at a time, I did push ups, sit ups, used the pipes to do bicep curls… anything to make myself stronger, bigger. I did this for two years, but it barely made a difference, maybe it was the malnourishment?

I turned fourteen today, I’m happy, I’m happy because from nowhere I’ve had a growth spurt, I’m almost half your size now, you came home drunk as always but I wasn’t hiding in the basement this time, no I was standing right in front of you… you tried to punch me and missed, that was your downfall. The beating I gave you that night escapes my memories, it’s a hazy blur. But I remember you cowering and I remember telling you it would happen again if you even looked at me, my mom or my sister the wrong way again…

You couldn’t bare that, you couldn’t bare the fact I could now give as good as I got…

So, what did you do? You ran away like the coward you were… and finally we began to pick up the pieces, the fear of violence was gone.

I’m an adult today, I’m happy, I’m happy because I haven’t seen or heard from you in so many years, I’m happy because my mom is happily married to a man who treats her how she deserves to be treated. I’m happy because my sister married a man that is opposite to you in every way, a man that dotes on her and their baby.

Do you know what I’m not happy about dad? I’m not happy I spent my adolescence obsessing over every beating, every vile disgusting time you touched me, I’m not happy that I felt so much pain and sorrow I almost drowned in it… I’m not happy those feelings turned to anger and I spent every day pushing people away from me… I’m not happy that I devised a plan of tracking you down and making you pay. The thoughts of revenge didn’t come just at night anymore, they came in the daylight with no prompting from smells of any kind. It started to come together like a plan, and I was consumed with it, stages, equipment, an alibi... those thoughts, the thoughts of killing you gave me my strength back. 

It wasn’t a thought anymore, I can’t stress this enough, it was a plan. The thoughts of beating you until you begged me to stop soothed my soul, I let the hatred consume me, I saw it so vividly in my mind, me taking your life knowing your last moments would be filled with pain and fear. It wasn’t until I started reaching out to your drinking buddies, family, anyone that could tell me where to find you did the plan fall in to place, a year later I was given your location, your exact location. I drove there, for that five hour drive I imagined how it would go, I questioned if you would beg like I did? Would you scream and shout from the pain? I had everything I needed in that trunk, I knew where you were and finally, FINALLY I would get my revenge.

I parked up in the lot opposite your newest bar, I sat there for six hours until you were thrown out by security, I watched you roll about on the floor too drunk to stand as the people walking by laughed at you and mocked you, you looked so small, so lost and alone, so sick, you had become a reincarnate of that nine year old me, and I wanted to do nothing but wrap my arms around you, I wanted to hug you and make it all better… god works in mysterious ways, that day he showed me that you were suffering, and clearly had been for a while. 

I wish I could say I didn’t go through with it because I knew I was a better person than that, I didn’t go through with it because there was nothing I could do to you to that would make it worse for you, killing you would have put you out of your misery and you didn’t deserve that mercy. I have never since felt that kind of hatred towards anyone or anything. 

I believe with all my heart that god gave me a gift that day, because when I drove home, I finally felt free, it was like I could breathe for the first time, the anger was gone, the pain subsided and finally I could leave you in the back of my mind. 

My nightmare was over.

So, I stopped planning my revenge and started planning my future, planning who I wanted to be… and do you know what I picked? Animals… why? Because they were smaller than me, completely at my mercy, defenceless little beings. I had the power to hurt them or take away their pain. So, I trained, for years, I still am… I trained so I could take their pain away, so I could stop them suffering and give them the best life possible.

I have never once looked at something smaller than me and wished to cause it pain, the thought makes me feel sick, damn I even cry at soppy animal videos and that brings so much peace to me because I know there isn’t a shred of your wicked ways inside me… 

I’m an adult today, but I’m not happy, I’m not happy because you died today. At 4.35 pm I got a call that finished what you started. You took away my childhood, you tore away my adolescent years because I spent them trying to recover from something that can never be recovered from. But worst of all, when you died, you took away my chance for closure, you took away my chance to ask you why? You drank away your life, literally, and from what I was told you died a lonely, painful death. 

I take no solace from that dad… you took everything away from me, from my mom, from my sister, things we will never get back, but do you know what you did give me dad? You gave me an example of a man I never want to be, a man I will NEVER be… 

I will never know why, why you hated us so much? I will never know how the man that carried me on his shoulders to my first baseball game could change into such a monster that beat and abused his family… steal mine and my sister’s innocence.

Did you ever feel guilty? Did you have regrets? Did you love me? I will never find true peace because you died before giving me the answers I deserved. You’re a coward, you stole my past, but I won’t let you steal my future. I am successful without you.

So, this is my confession, my fears, my regrets, but most of all this is the end of you and your hold over me… writing this has freed me of the what if’s and why’s, this is my outlet and I feel honoured to have it.

If I had been standing beside you on your death bed do you know what I would have done dad?

I would have held your hand… I would have sat with you until the end.

Because that is the man I am, and you had nothing to do with that…


End file.
